Epic
by Angel Monroe
Summary: Logan said they were epic, spanning years and continents. Boy was he right. This is the several reincarnations of LoVe. Spoilers 2.20 in the last chapter.
1. 1295 Scotland

**Epic  
**by Angel Monroe

_Disclaimer: I gave my soul to God for the book I'm writing. I have nothing left to barter for Veronica Mars. In other words, unfortunately, I don't own it. _

_A/N: This one was a hoot and a half to write. Logan said they were epic, spanning years and continents. Boy was he right. This is the several reincarnations of LoVe. Spoilers 2.20 in the last chapter. Have fun. _

_1295 Scotland_

He had been walking through woods and plains for near a week, hearing phantom dogs barking behind him. Two more nights of this and he would be dead to the world. Two more nights and he wouldn't care if they caught him. Not even six and twenty, and he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He hadn't killed her. Even if the whole world thought he did, if they had put his likeness up all over Scotland with the word _Murderer_ bold across the bottom, in his heart he knew that he couldn't have killed his wife. She had been there when he went to sleep, and then just wasn't when he woke up. He didn't do it. But with sleep deprivation forcing his mind to the point of agonizing reverie, he was starting to care less and less. Without his Maggie, what was he living for anyway?

When out of the black came the foreign orange glow of a candle only ten meters or so away, he actually laughed. Maybe that was them, and the executioner wouldn't be far behind. He sank to his knees.

The laugh must have been louder than he expected because the candle stopped moving and a tiny gasp reached his ears. So dainty a gasp.

"Who's there?" came a girl's voice, scared, and he wished he wasn't the type of man who created fear. But he was. "Da! I heard something!"

Then the orange glow streaked and disappeared into a house he hadn't known was there.

"Who's there?" This time it was a man, and his sword was probably not far.

"Just a traveler," he called out finally, his voice breaking as he stood. "I don't mean any harm. If you'd be so kind, a bit of water and a piece of bread, and I'll be on my way again. I don't have any money, but…"

And suddenly the light was in his face and he was being ushered into a hut. "Come in, come in," the man was saying, but he had not the energy to thank him. Three days it had been since he'd had a decent bit of food, and suddenly his body reminded him of it.

He sat in the chair he was offered and looked around him. The house was small, comfortable, but lacked a woman's touch. Just from a glance, he could tell there was no mother here. But the man who sat opposite him was kind-looking and the girl who set a bowl of stew in front of him was beautiful.

"Thank you, lass," he mumbled, and the color of her eyes made him want to weep for his wife.

"What's your name, son?" the older man asked him. "Where are you traveling to?"

He hesitated, but his name probably wasn't in the highlands yet. "McMillan. Donovan McMillan. I'm looking for a place to start over."

The man looked at him intently, and for a moment he doubted his previous assumption. The girl was staring at her stew. But then the man smiled lightly and replied, "Angus Robertson." Then to the girl sitting between us, "Margaret, why don't you get Mr. McMillan some ale?"

He cringed at the name and put a hand on her arm to stop her. She looked surprise and so did he, before pulling away. "Water, if you please, lass."

She nodded, her eyes on his again, and he hated himself.

"I don't know what you're looking for, son," Angus said, and for a moment he was confused, "but I can make you a room in the barn and there's a lot more work than I can handle here myself."

It surprised him, kindness from such a recent stranger, and for a moment he didn't know what to say. "You have a daughter," he replied softly, and they both saw the double meaning in it.

"Are you planning to take advantage?" Angus looked hard into his eyes, and he broke under it.

"No, sir. But I just lost my wife." The man didn't look surprised, and that surprised him. "You know who I am, don't you?"

"Ay, I know who they say you are." There was no accusation in his voice and Donovan was getting more confused by the moment.

"And you'd ask me to stay here?"

"You don't have the eyes of a murderer," Angus told him, and again he broke under the man's gaze. "Why don't you take a good look in my eyes, son."

Unnerved, he did, and the hardness in them, absent only a moment ago, shocked him more than anything.

"Those," Angus said gravely, "are the eyes of a murderer. And I know you'll remember that every time you look at my daughter."

He didn't look at Margaret again for three days.

OOOOOOOO

She didn't know what to think of this Donovan McMillan.

He was supposedly a murderer. She'd heard talk of him when she'd gone visiting last, a lowlander who'd killed his wife in her sleep. It unnerved her that he slept not a hundred yards from where she did, and yet her da had accepted him and so must she.

He worked for her father, taking care of the animals and doing farm work while she worked in the house. She didn't see him much save meal times, and she rather liked it that way. Having another man around was disconcerting by the sheer fact that she wasn't used to it. Her da was one thing, but she was not eighteen, and a man unrelated to her working so close was something foreign and dangerous. She didn't like it one bit, especially since he never looked her in the eyes, he rarely talked to her, and he never called her by her name. He called her _lass_, and even that was whispered as if he were keeping her a secret.

She just didn't know what to think of him.

Two weeks later he called her Maggie on accident and then started to cry.

Two months later he kissed her and didn't shed a tear.


	2. 1348 Spain

_1348 Spain_

Manot huddled in the corner of a still unfamiliar house, wishing the past year would rewind and start over. The Black Death had ravaged France, spreading from town to town before they knew what hit them. Her mother had sent them away when the first man died, a long and arduous journey to the south of Spain where their late father's family lived. She hadn't heard from her mother since.

She knew that she was supposed to be strong, supposed to hold together for the sake of her younger brother and sister, but every once in a while the ghosts of the past caught up with her and she couldn't stay the tears.

"_Grande soeur_?" She wiped her eyes and stood at her brother's voice. "Big sister?"

"What is it François?" she asked, pushing the sticky hair from her face.

"_Client_," he replied. _Customer_. His six-year-old mind was picking up Spanish better than she was, but he still preferred their native language when it was just them. Probably reminded him of home.

_Or what used to be home_.

This halfway house was her home now, and had been for so long that she was beginning to forget the old house. Now she helped her aunt and uncle offer a place to stay for others like her—lost and banished by this devouring disease.

Putting on what smile she could manage, she stepped behind the counter and greeted their guest, a man who looked no older than she.

His dark eyes threw her. They looked almost black.

"_¿Cómo puedo ayudarle?_" she asked in her poor excuse for Spanish, pushing a surprised tremor from her voice. _How may I help you?_

"_J'ai besoin d'une salle_," he replied, and she smiled wider than she had in months.

"You are French," she laughed in her native tongue, sounding more relieved than she meant. "It has been too long since I've met a countryman."

"It is a pleasure, mademoiselle," he replied wearily. "And as I said, I need a room. Is there one here I could rent?"

"How long will you be staying with us, Monsieur…?" She looked at the book in front of her and not at his eyes.

"Fornier. Jacques Fornier. And how long do you think the plague will last?" he asked, but there was a worn teasing in his inflection. "Let us just say indefinitely."

She smiled, despite the situation and the sorrow she felt sweeping off of him in waves. She looked up into his dark eyes and, for the first time in a long time, felt that maybe someone else understood.

OOOOOOOO

He stared at her dark curly hair instead of her face. She was smiling, but he didn't see much happiness in it. It hid something deeper and darker than a girl her age should know. He recognized it because he saw it in looking glasses and watery reflections.

"Let me show you to your room, Monsieur Fornier," she replied and he simply nodded.

He followed her up a flight of stairs to a small, empty room with a bed and a wardrobe. It wasn't much, but it was all he could ask for or afford. He'd heard of the place in a nearby town, a hotel who took in strays for pittances and chores. In times like those, such allowances were a gift he couldn't turn away.

"_Merci beaucoup_." He put his single canvas bag on the bed and turned back to his host. "May I ask your name, _s'il vous plaît_?"

"Manot," she answered tightly, obviously taken aback by the question, and then turned to leave.

But he felt he couldn't let her.

"What did you leave behind, Manot?" he asked, just wanting to keep her in the room. She was familiar, something safe, though he'd known her only fifteen minutes and her name for less than a minute.

She stopped in the doorway but didn't turn around. It unsettled him somehow, to be unable to see her face when she spoke. "One should not ask such things in times such as these."

Her voice was low and melancholy, but that was what he'd expected.

"Not asking does not keep you from being sad." He had not meant to whisper it, but it came out that way nonetheless. It was as if to truly speak the words aloud would make them hurt more.

She turned to him then, and the tears in her eyes would have broken his heart had it not been shattered months ago.

"But asking does not keep me from sadness either," she replied in all she could muster of a controlled voice. "It only brings the ghosts out to play."

When she turned to leave again, he didn't try to stop her.


	3. 1663 Paris

_1663 Paris_

He stood in the shadows of the marketplace, or as much in the shadows as a musketeer could be. He was on leave, not looking for a fight, but a man in black was always noticed in these parts. Only hours ago, he had been thrown through the doors of a nearby tavern by a man twice his size for no apparent reason.

Okay, so he had been distracting the man's wench, but how could a man such as him be blamed for it?

He tipped his hat at a passing peasant woman and took another bite of the apple he was holding. It was soft, overripe. He liked it that way.

When he heard a scream in the distance, he didn't stop to think that he wasn't on duty. It was a woman's scream, and that wasn't something to be ignored.

Rounding a corner, he saw a man and a woman in what could be soon progress to a compromising position, but his hand covered her mouth and she looked frightened. Her long blonde hair was mussed and tangled, and little whimpering noises escaped through her gag.

"You there!" he called, drawing his sword, and the man looked up with an expression of something akin to blind fury. "Unhand that gentlewoman!"

The man's eyes widened, and instead of drawing his sword he simply gathered himself and ran. A musketeer's tunic was warning enough for most men and for once, he didn't mind avoiding the fight. The woman in front of him looked petrified enough, covering herself where her dress had been ripped. He averted his eyes and wrapped his tunic around her.

"_Madame_," he offered her his hand and she took it hesitantly, tears on her cheeks. "Are you alright?"

"_Oui, monseigneur_," she nodded frantically, but when he turned away to pursue the man, she called after him again. "_S'il_ _vous plait_, do not leave me alone."

He looked back at the woman in her ripped fancy dress, and saw how fragile she was. It wasn't a difficult choice. He knelt down beside her and placed a gentle hand on her waist. "By your leave…" He waited for her to nod, chivalrous to the end when occasion called for it, and then pulled her to her feet and helped her into a nearby tavern.

OOOOOOOO

She looked up at her rescuer as he placed her into a chair, and the loss of his hand on her waist was a shock. It felt safe, though propriety would never allow her to tell him so. "_Merci beaucoup_," she mumbled, though mumbling was not in the general repertoire of a gentlewoman.

"_Pas de quoi_," he replied, and she laughed a pathetic little laugh.

"It is everything, _monseigneur_. _Merci_."

She thanked him again when he brought her a glass of wine for her nerves, and then again when he sat and talked with her until she was calm. It felt like all she could do was thank him, though he always waved it off.

"If you have duties to attend to," she said finally, once her nerves were less frayed, "you need not sit and watch over me. I am alright now."

"Did that man hurt you?" he asked instead. "Before I arrived?"

A warm blush erupted high on her cheeks, though a lady aught never blush. "He did not," she assured him. "Your timing was flawless."

He nodded, seemingly relieved. "Well then, I suppose I had best escort you back to the safety of your home." Before she could protest, he interrupted, momentarily forgetting decorum. "I insist, _Madame_. I would feel better having gotten you there myself."

Another warm blush, and she lowered her head so he might not see. "I cannot thank you enough, _monseigneur_. You saved my life."

"_Mon plaisir_," he smiled considerately. _My pleasure_. His eyes were warm and blue, and she wished they had met under different circumstances. Absently, she tightened his tunic around her. "Come. I will bring you home."

When he pulled her up onto his horse she thought might faint, and when he gently helped her down she wished he would kiss her.

"May I ask your name, _Madame_?" he asked before she closed her door.

"Marguerite Gauthier," she answered, three blushes in one afternoon.

He smiled, mounting his horse and tipping his hat. "I'll see you again, Marguerite Gauthier."

True to his word, he came back the next day. Two years later, he started calling her _épouse_ instead.


	4. 1750 North Carolina

1750 North Carolina

She knocked on the door in front of her, trying to ignore the sweat on her brow. The baby against her shoulder was crying in the heat, but she had no way to keep it cool. They'd been knocking on doors like this all day.

_Please_, she prayed, glancing towards the heavens. _Please, just a little mercy._

"Can I help you, ma'am?"

She looked up, almost surprised that the door was open, and smiled at the young Negro maid.

"May I speak to the lady of the house?" she asked politely, bouncing Annabelle in her arms.

"There ain't no lady of the house here, ma'am," was her answer, definitely not one she'd heard before. "What's this about?"

"Well then, may I speak to the man of the house?" she asked again, and she flinched as a little of her desperation crept into her voice. "Please."

The maid looked hesitant, but she nodded and closed the door.

She stood with Annabelle, bouncing her gently and making little cooing noises in her ear. "Hush little baby, don't you cry," she sang softly, blinking back tears of her own, "mama's gonna buy you…"

At the sound of the door, she turned and met the clearest green eyes she'd ever seen. "How can I help you, ma'am?" the man asked, and for a moment she couldn't breathe.

"I'm looking for work," she stammered out finally, collecting herself and then looking back at him. "I can clean, I can cook, I can do anything you want, but I need work and a place to live for me and my daughter."

The green-eyed man looked at her intently, almost dazed, before stepping back and inviting her inside. Out of the sun, the sweat cooled on her skin and she smiled with the sudden chill. Annabelle's cries grew softer.

OOOOOOOO

"What's your name, ma'm?" He led her into his study and sat at his desk, motioning for her to sit across from him.

"Mrs. Vivian Harris," she replied quickly, shushing the child in her arms.

"And how old are you?"

"Twenty-three." She seemed to want to say something else, and he waited, but she was having a hard time with it. "My husband just passed on and I have a daughter to raise all on my own. I don't mean to make you feel guilty; I'm just telling it like it is." He believed her, though he felt for her anyhow.

"You have any experience with children, save your little one of course?" In his mind, he was begging for an affirmation.

"You could say," she nodded, and he let out a held breath. "Up north I was a school teacher for four years before we migrated."

_Thank you, Lord_, he prayed, letting out an involuntary laugh.

"I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you," he chuckled off her expression. "I was just thinking that you couldn't have come at better time."

Her sigh was beautiful as the weight of the world seemed to lift from her shoulders. "You have a job for me, then?" she questioned animatedly.

"I think I might," he smiled easier than he had in a long while. "My wife passed away about a month ago, and with the plantation work I don't really know what to do with my children. I mean, there are four of them, and I can't handle them on my own. They need a governess." Before she could answer, he hurried on, "You'll get a regular pay, a room near the children, all your meals." He looked at her pleadingly. "How's that sound?"

"Well, Mr.—" she waited for him to fill in the blank.

"Laurence; Matthew Laurence."

"Well, Mr. Laurence," she smiled, her dark eyes shining, "I think you may just have yourself a deal."


	5. 1889 London

_1889 London_

It was a dangerous place those days, London was. Near five month since Jack the Ripper (as he'd come to be called) had taken his first victim, and the streets still smelled of fear on the East End. Even though there hadn't been a murder in two months, the smarter women still kept an open eye.

Inspector Atherton, a five-year Whitechapel veteran, still kept a watchful eye for those who didn't. They'd had no body, no letter, and no clue for so long that some had started to think it was over. He had never been an optimist.

"Coffee," he told the man behind the bar, tossing down a coin with his eyes still wandering the room. He took his drink and walked back outside, not letting his gaze rest a moment.

So caught up in watching everything, he didn't see the woman in front of him until he'd about run her over.

"Apologies, miss," he tipped his hat to the woman, sloshing coffee on his jacket sleeve.

"Wotch where yor gahn!" the woman bit, her cockney accent thick as the air.

An unfortunate, she was. He could see it in her dirty dress and the way his hand wrapped all the way around her upper arm when he steadied her. Probably hadn't had a decent meal in a month.

"Miss," he called as she walked away, and it seemed only hesitantly did she stop.

"Wotcher want?" she demanded rudely, crossing her arms over her half-exposed chest. "I'm bloody well not doin' anyfink wrong 'ere."

"I didn't say you were."

She looked at him again, more suspiciously this time. "Well I'm bloody well not one of them girls 'oo lays free for the bobbies, evver."

"I'm not asking you to." He smiled at her vulgarity, amused.

She smiled at that too. "Wot, then? Yer 'ave brass?"

He held a few coins out in the palm of her hands, and she swaggered towards him happily.

OOOOOOOO

"Well, ffen, inspector, woss yor pleasure?" she asked, smiling the best smile she could.

She looked into this hand, expecting to see a couple shillings. It would be enough. She hadn't eaten in three days. She'd take what she could get. But they weren't shillings, and she pulled her hand back like it had been burned.

"That's four bloody pounds!" she almost screamed.

"It is," he replied, and he had that same bloody smile on his face. The one that was making fun of her.

"Wot do I 'ave ter do for it?" Again she turned suspicious. The inspector was offering her a lot of money, too much for just a simple go with a whore.

"Nothing," he said, and she laughed in his face. Nothing came free in this world. She'd learned that all too well. "Really, miss. All I want you to do is to go into that inn over there and get yerself something to eat."

"Yor bloomin' crazy!"

Again with that smile. It unnerved her. Kindness always unnerved her.

"These streets aren't safe for an unfortunate like yerself," he said quietly, his voice suddenly serious. "Get yerself something to eat and a room for the night. There've been murders enough in these parts, and I won't be worrying about your pretty little head."

It caught her off-guard, the half-compliment. No one had called her pretty in a very long time. Too long for her to remember. Endearments weren't made for unlucky women.

So surprised, it took her a moment to realize that he was still holding out his hand. She didn't need to be told again. With the quickness of a rabbit, she grabbed the coins from his palm and ran towards the inn. When she turned back at the door, the good inspector was gone.

"Thank yer kindly," she whispered to the wind, then entered the inn and ate the best meal she'd had in years.


	6. 1923 Chicago

_1923 Chicago_

Almost midnight and the _Whiskey Rebellion _had been up and hopping for hours. Prohibition had pushed the bootleg liquor business to a record high, and speakeasy owner Cherry Garrison loved every minute of it. She hadn't had a moment's break since opening.

She looked up from the drink she was pouring and almost dropped it.

_Alright, hell's just had its first Chicago winter._

A party too big for the doors had just walked in, heads held high and laughter rolling like the Mississippi. And at the center of it all was one of the most handsome men she'd ever seen on the big screen. Six-foot-something, blonde hair, blue eyes, helluva everything else.

_Vic freaking Balister. Of all the bars in all the world…_

"Miss?" She looked up at the average Joe in front of her. "My drink?"

"Oh yeah," she laughed lightly, handing him his glass and throwing him a little wink. "On the house for being such a sweetie."

The man smiled and nodded and left her a handsome tip.

She always did have a way with the gentleman clientele. But she had a feeling the moment Vic Balister walked in that it was going to be a hell of a night. With two girls hanging on him and probably a couple back at his five-star, fancy-shmancy hotel, she knew that the tabloid gossip was probably true. Another trumped-up playboy with way too much money and too few brain cells to go around. Yeah, this was going to be fun.

As he made his way to the bar, she turned to the register and tried her damnedest poker face on for size.

OOOOOOOO

He swaggered through the door, a girl on each arm and a half-dozen guys around him just trying to soak up his charm. Twenty-two and the world at his feet, the biggest actor in Hollywood and nothing was going to bring him down tonight. Man he loved being him.

"Whata ya want, sweetheart?" he asked the blonde on his left. "How's about a gin martini? This place has the best bootleg gin this side of town. Yeah, let's get you one 'a those. Hey mista!" He waved at the back of the bartender, and then laughed when the bartender turned out to be a woman. Okay, so he'd already had a couple tonight. "Whoops."

"What can I get ya?" asked the short redhead in the cloche hat, and he couldn't understand how he'd mistaken her for a man. _Yowza! _

"Well, sweetheart, this little ditty will take a gin martini, this little ditty'll have the house special…" he nodded to each in turn and then dropped his arms and leaned over the bar, "…and me, I'll just take _you_ back to my place." The girls at his sides pouted, but he wasn't concerned. They'd be there when he wanted 'em.

He expected her to smile, and she did, but it wasn't the melting smile he was used to. It was something else, something spicy, and he almost took a step back.

"Well, mister, the martini and the special are fine, but I'm off the menu so I guess you're outta luck."

"Cute, dollface," he smirked, an award winning smirk that always threw the ladies, "but you got any idea who you're talkin' to?"

"The guy who's holdin' up the rest of my paying customers," she answered straight back, not giving an inch as she poured his companions' drinks. "Now do ya want something, Mr. Balister, or are you plannin' to set up an autograph signing right here at the bar?"

It just about knocked the wind out of him. He, Vic Balister, was being put down and dismissed by a woman bartender in a low-down Chicago speakeasy. He didn't know if he should be insulted or impressed.

"What's your name, toots?" he couldn't help but ask.

"It sure ain't toots," was her quick reply before turning to a customer down on the bar.

"What's your name?" he repeated, and then with an amused smile, "Please." He couldn't remember the last time he'd said the word outside a movie set.

She looked up at him, and for the first time he noticed her shocking green eyes. "Anna," she replied, "but people call me Cherry." It was still in that smartass voice, making it a dare, and he loved it.

"Alright, Cherry," he laughed the name, "I'll take a bourbon on the rocks."

She smirked cheekily and poured his drink, her green eyes never leaving his, and he went back to his company.

He left a fifty dollar-tip at the end of the night and came back every day until the end of shooting.


	7. 2000 Neptune

_2000 Neptune, California_

He followed his friend Duncan across the parking lot towards the soccer field, unsure of why they were there. Yes, Lilly was playing and DK was nothing if not supportive of his sister, but Logan knew Lilly enough to guess that she wasn't on the team for competition's sake. Besides, the game was almost over.

"There she is," Duncan whispered as they took seats on the bleachers. He pointed to a blonde girl and for a second Logan thought it was Lilly. But the number was wrong and she was actually running.

"Who?"

"Veronica." He looked at his friend and saw a wispy smile on his face.

Now he understood. _First real crush_.

He took another look at the girl. _Cute_, was his first impression. Long hair, sharp features, wide smile. Her face was flushed with exercise and she seemed to have an unobtrusive confidence that made him smile. Yup, there was something about this Veronica girl.

"She's pretty," he said, knowing that his friend was silently asking his opinion.

Duncan smiled his patented "Hell yeah" smile and turned his attention back to the game.

Logan, too, kept his eye on Veronica. And the more he watched her, the more he liked what he saw, she in her shorts and her knee socks. She with eyes that crinkled when she laughed and who didn't seem to know how beautiful she was. It caught him in a place low in his stomach, and he knew his friend would hate him if he could read minds. But it was all innocent enough and he didn't feel the need to mention it.

When the game was over, Lively Lilly and the girl of the hour ran over to say hi.

"Ronica, this is my brother's friend Logan," Lilly introduced them, and once again he was caught by the girl's smile. Who knew a girl could show so many teeth at once? "Logan, this is my bestest of all friends, Veronica Mars."

"Gosh, Lilly, why do you always have to say my full name?" Veronica groaned, though he could hear the teasing in her voice. "Makes me feel like Marvin the Martian should be flying a spaceship around my head."

The girls laughed infectiously and all he could think to say was, "It's nice to meet you."

OOOOOOOO

"Logan Echolls," Lilly stage-whispered as Veronica ran past across the field and she had to stop. Bending down, she pretended to tie her cleat.

"What?"

"Logan Echolls," her friend repeated, drawing out the name on her tongue as if she were tasting it. "Do you see that guy up there, sitting with Duncan Donut?"

She glanced quickly at the stands and smiled up at Duncan, her best friend's brother. Next to him, though, was a boy she didn't know. He had brown hair, a handsome enough face. But all she really dared was a glance.

"Who is he?" she asked. "And make it quick 'cause I'm supposed to be offense."

"Just moved from LA, his dad is _the famous_ Aaron Echolls. Absolutely gorgeous. Duncan and he are all buddy-buddy so I'm totally taking advantage."

Veronica laughed and ran back to her position.

After the game, Lilly dragged her over to where the boys were hanging out. Not that she was kicking and screaming.

"It's nice to meet you," Logan said after the introductions, and she wiped her hand on her shorts before she shook his hand.

"Sorry, I'm a little sweaty," she explained and then rolled her eyes at herself. _What a dork_. But he looked at her with his big brown eyes and she didn't feel it so much. She smiled again for no reason and looked at her shoes, wishing that someone else would say something and let her off the hook.

Lilly broke the moment first, grabbing Logan's arm and starting her mile-a-minute vocal calisthenics. Duncan offered his arm and she took it gratefully as the boys walked them home.


	8. 2006 Neptune Grand

_2006 Neptune Grand_

She wandered around the room, trying to remember why she was there. The place reeked of memories with Duncan, but she wasn't in the mood to wallow over them. She sure as hell wasn't there to enjoy Madison's quick wit or Dick's creepy leers. Wallace and Jackie could have just taken her invitation and come on their own. Besides, they had just hit the door anyway, other things on their minds than dancing.

She leaned against a wall, contemplating why she wasn't on the way out the door as well, when suddenly a warm body stood in front of her.

"Alone again," came that all-too-familiar voice, and his words, few as they were, made her want to cry.

"Naturally," she replied, wanting to be anywhere but standing there with him. She didn't really feel up for a fight.

"I, uh, I know the feeling." And it seemed neither was he as he leaned on the wall next to her. The champagne bottle in his hand didn't look nearly full, and she didn't know whether to laugh or to shake her head at him.

"You?" she asked instead. "Host of the greatest private replacement prom ever?"

He smiled at that and took a good, long swig. It was real smile, a genuine smile, but there was something else in it too. She didn't want to see what it was.

So she went for cutting instead, "I'm sure you could have your pick of the bimbos." When he didn't say anything, she did what she did best and changed the subject. "I really like this song."

Suddenly he felt too close, and she sat on the table to put some space between them. She didn't like what she felt when she was close to him. It was too familiar. He, of course, didn't seem to get the message because he straddled the table next to her, bringing himself into her space again.

When he spoke, the very sound of it shocked her. She wasn't used to this softer Logan. She hadn't seen him for a long time. "You know, I'm surprised, Veronica. And as a keen observer of the human condition, I thought you saw through people better than that."

It confused her—the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice, the things he was saying. This wasn't the Logan she'd known this past year, and that scared her too.

"Bimbos?" he questioned, looking at her like she should know better. "That's not me anymore."

"So what are you like now?"

"You know. Tortured." His response was almost comical, but she couldn't make herself laugh at him. "Ever since I had my heart broke." And then she felt like she couldn't breathe again.

It took everything in her not to choke on the words. "Hannah really did do a number on you, huh?"

And his answer just about made her cry. "Come on, you know I'm not talking about Hannah."

OOOOOOOO

He sat next to her on the table, trying to keep his eyes on any one thing. It was difficult, staying focused when the champagne was coursing through his veins. He'd had one too many bottles, and it would probably hurt like hell in the morning, but just then he didn't care in the least. Veronica was sitting next to him.

And what was coming out of his mouth was bound to hurt in the morning too, but he couldn't make himself care about that either. Because Veronica was sitting next to him.

"I thought our story was epic, you know? You and me." Part of him knew he should keep his mouth shut when he was drunk, but without the buffer of a bottle at least, he also knew he would never say anything.

"Epic how?" she asked, and he didn't want to hear fear in her voice, so he didn't. He took another drink instead.

_In every way possible_, flashed through his mind, but what he said was, "Spanning years and continents. Lives ruined, bloodshed, epic." Yeah, that was definitely them. "But summer's almost here. And we won't see each other at all. Then you'll leave town then...it's over." The thoughts had been killing him lately, without the distraction of Hannah or, heaven help him, Kendall.

"Logan..."

He couldn't let her stop him now. If he didn't get it out now, he never would and she would leave without knowing. "I'm sorry. About last summer." He saw her surprise and he knew he was getting emotional, but to hell with all of it. "You know, if I could do it over..."

She looked a little scared again, and he hated himself for it, but he couldn't bring himself to care. When she tried to lighten everything, shrugging and saying, "Come on. Ruined lives, bloodshed? You really think a relationship should be that hard?" he felt like he could die.

But he knew the answer anyway. "No one writes songs about the ones that come easy."

And then he could feel her skin and her breath and the world seemed a little clearer. It cleared for a moment and a half before he tried to kiss her and she ran out the door.

The next morning, he woke up and couldn't remember his own name, never mind what he'd said to make her love him again.

_A/N: As I said, this has been a hoot and a half to write. It took a bit of research and I must have used about a hundred internet resources to get the languages down and the historical facts straight, but it was so totally worth it. _


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